When I was young, my mother told
that "Gods are born in iron molds"
Peers caught hold and then controlled,
they told me I was only stone—
cold.
But I see the now—the lies they hold.
The skies turned yellow for all to behold
and I was born
from liquid gold.
Living without a form to hold.

I just wanted to say something to all of you.

I feel as if the words I write are sometimes more important than I am.
If that is true, then I hope that after I die, they stay behind and find you whenever you need them.

-Joshua

i just want to
be in your
arms,
snuggling
close,
listening
to your
heart beat.

Humble pianist, not so grand
With her soft and silken hands
She plays a different kind of key
Not your grandmother’s ivory,
But something entirely
Different.

Her notes are lucid
And spontaneous.
Her facts are wild
And erroneous.
Her keyboard is,
Not one that sings
But one that weaves
Such trivial things.

She births not art
Musically
Her notes are letters
“A” through “Z”.
Her works are neither
Sung nor Heard
She’s an artist of
The written word.

When in the night,
They’ve taken flight;
Hooting
Empathetic owls.
For in the night
Is when she writes,
Her passion
Most marvelous and foul.

She clicks and types,
Screams and cries
Her perseverance almost dies.
Her eyes are calloused
Raw and sore
Her computer screen is what she scorns.

And this must be
For it is she,
Who plays these notes so
Brilliantly.
And with her keys
Most endlessly
She writes her laptop poetry.